


Just Short of a Bottle of Maker’s Mark and a Shotgun

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D., House M.D. RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bodyswap - Sort of, Crossover, F/M, Foibles, M/M, real person fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-28
Updated: 2006-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Necessity Is the Mother of Invention of Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Short of a Bottle of Maker’s Mark and a Shotgun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/hw_fest/profile)[**hw_fest**](http://community.livejournal.com/hw_fest/) challenge, prompt 10: "One of Wilson's patients is a semi-famous star, and his/her fame begins to rub off on Wilson." Takes place in an alternate, Tritter-free, far less angsty House-verse, in the fall of 2006. Many, many thanks to [](http://shoedog.livejournal.com/profile)[**shoedog**](http://shoedog.livejournal.com/) for her expertise and to [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Bob sat on the exam room table and tried not to fidget. The wait at this clinic was extraordinarily long, and he was regretting having told Gaby she and her cousin could go to lunch without him.

“It’s just heartburn,” Gaby had said, her pixie-like face scrunching in annoyance. “You can go to Dr. Moss on Monday.”

“Well, the Clinic is here; it’s so convenient,” he’d replied, carefully not giving voice to the word “free” that rang in his head. “I’ll get it taken care of today and then I can better enjoy the party tonight and all of Saturday with you and Maggie.”

“Oh, Bob,” Gaby had sighed, and then left him there to wait.

The exam room door opened, and a tall older man with a cane strode in. His head was bent toward the file in his left hand.

“Well, Mr. – Which one of these is your last name? They all seem to be first names.” The man stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Bob.

“Leonard is my last name, but you can call me Bob if you like. Are you the doctor? You don’t look like a doctor.”

“Wilson,” the man said irritably, “this is the stupidest joke you’ve ever tried to play on me. You’re not Superman; a pair of glasses isn’t going to fool me.” He threw the file down on a counter.

“What?”

“And if you think I’m going to re-enact the Lois Lane kiss from _Superman 2_ , so you can make me forget your secret identity, you have another think coming.”

“I’m normally more articulate than this, but what? I – I didn’t see _Superman 2_. The first _Superman_ , sure, so I had a little background on Christopher Reeve for when we filmed _In the Gloaming_ …” Bob could tell from the man’s face that he’d gone off on a tangent again. It wasn’t that uncommon.

“Wilson?” the man tried again.

“My name is Bob. Or in the file, it should say Robert Leonard. What’s your name?”

“All right,” the man said slowly. “I’m Dr. Greg House. Just a second; I’m going to page a colleague of mine.”

Bob tried not to sigh as the doctor crossed to the phone. This was really taking forever.

“OK,” said Dr. House, crossing back over to the exam table and taking a seat on a rolling chair. “Tell me what brought you here.”

“I live in New York; I’m just here for a visit. My fiancée went to Princeton, so she and I came for an alumni event tonight, and to spend tomorrow with her cousin.”

Seeing Dr. House grow irritated again, Bob was mystified. He’d answered the question, hadn’t he? He went back over his words in his head. It seemed clear enough, no extraneous thoughts. OK, “cousin” left the gender up in the air, but that wasn’t his fault, just because the English language –

“What brings you to the Clinic? I don’t care what brought you to Princeton.”

“Oh. Sorry. I have a burning sensation, here in my chest.” He gestured up and down.

“So it’s a burning, and it’s near your heart?”

“Yes, exactly.” Bob smiled at the still-grumpy doctor.

“Hmm, whatever could that be? We’ll have to wait for Dr. Wilson to drag his cute little _tuchis_ in here.”

Just then there was a brief knock at the door, and a younger, better-looking, more-professional looking doctor walked in. “Consult?” he asked.

“Suspicious symptoms, Dr. Wilson,” Dr. House replied. “I wanted you to take a look at Mr. – um –”

“Leonard,” Bob supplied. “You can call me Bob. My symptoms are suspicious? Really?”

“Very,” Dr. House said, as he waved Dr. Wilson over to the exam table.

Bob got a little nervous as Dr. Wilson slipped the stethoscope inside his shirt and started listening.

“Chest sounds fine,” Dr. Wilson said, and pulled back. “Tell me about these symptoms.”

“It’s mostly just one – a sort of burning in my chest.”

Dr. Wilson shot a look at Dr. House, who was watching them impassively. “It’s burning, not stabbing?”

Bob nodded. “That’s right. Not stabbing.”

“Any shortness of breath?”

“No.”

“Any pain or tingling in your jaw, neck, or extremities?”

“No.”

Dr. Wilson shot another look at Dr. House, who had started to grin. It was rather disconcerting, and Bob wasn’t sure he liked it. Or Dr. House. This Dr. Wilson seemed nice, though.

The younger doctor patted him on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “I think it’s just acid reflux, or heartburn. Stop by the pharmacy for an antacid, and if your symptoms aren’t better after two days, come back again, OK?”

Slipping off the table, Bob smiled back. As he left the exam room, he heard the two doctors squabbling behind him.

“House, why did you take up my time with a simple acid reflux?”

“You didn’t notice the resemblance? You two were so cute together…”

Bob shook his head and kept walking.

* * *

House was in his office, still grinning about that morning’s scene in the Clinic – and fine-tuning Acts II and IV in the magnificent, epic sexual fantasy he had tentatively titled “The Wilson Twins Bring the House Down” – when Cameron brought a patient file to his attention. It was moderately interesting, so he gathered up the kids, snagged Jimmy from next door, and started up the differential.

Five minutes or so in, and they were getting to the good stuff. Recurrent tumors, but in different parts of the body, and the markers on the latest round of tests were very interesting. “OK,” House said, cutting Chase off completely. “Let’s get the expert’s opinion. Wilson?”

Wilson was deep in thought, staring off into nothing. All three of the fellows turned to look at him, clearly expecting something profound.

“Wilson?”

Pulling himself back to them reluctantly, Wilson opened his mouth and said, “What?”

“Your thoughts on what I just said?” House raised an eyebrow.

“Which was what again?”

An interesting variety of expressions around the room: disappointment (Foreman), confusion (Chase, naturally), concern (Cameron), incredulity (House), and vague befuddlement (guess).

“Sorry,” Wilson continued, “my mind was elsewhere. Could you say it again?”

The wind from the mass head-shaking blew a teeny bit of Wilson’s hair out of place. House would have found it charming if he hadn’t been so confused by Wilson having checked out during the differential.

After they were done with the first round of Name That Diagnosis and the young’uns had run off to do their tests, House turned toward Wilson, who was again staring into the distance. House snapped his fingers, and waited for Wilson’s attention to return. “What were you thinking about?”

“When?”

“When I had my dick up your ass this morning.” Wilson’s exasperation at that at least indicated that he was now paying attention. “During the differential just now, duh. You’re not normally Private Space-Cadet, so what were you thinking?”

“You know that patient you had me ‘consult’ on this morning? Heartburn guy? He’s a theater actor. Wouldn’t that be a great job to have, just for the hours? You have your day to see your family and go to the town pool and read a book, and you have to be at work at seven and you’re home by eleven, just in time for Seinfeld. That’d be great.”

“Ooookay,” House replied. “Think I’ll go see how my team’s doing.”

Wilson followed House out the door but turned right, toward his own office.

* * *

Friday night had become their official Movie Night. Wilson occasionally complained that they never went out any more, but House pointed out – quite reasonably he thought – that they had never gone out on Friday nights before, so “any more” was unfair phrasing. (When Wilson started up the same whine on Saturday nights, House didn’t have quite as solid a rebuttal, so he usually just lured Wilson into bed instead.)

Tonight, House was having a hard time finding the familiar blue bag. Checking the coffee table, he knocked aside a similar but white bag and finally had to concede defeat.

“Wilson, where’s the stuff from Blockbuster?”

“I didn’t go to Blockbuster today.” After plopping on the couch next to House, Wilson picked the white bag up off the floor and held it on his lap. “I went to the library, which has DVDs too.”

“Yes, they do. Old DVDs, kids’ DVDs, and boring DVDs. If you want the latest, or the raunchiest, you have to go elsewhere.”

“The library’s movies are perfectly fine. I got a Fred Astaire film.” Wilson reached into the bag, pulled out the top DVD, and handed it over.

“ _Roberta_? Didn’t you complain to me at one point that this was one of Fred and Ginger’s worst?”

Ignoring him, Wilson moved on. “They had the second DVD of the _Brideshead Revisited_ box set, but not the first, so I’ll just watch that myself later. Oh, and here’s _Gigli_ ; I’ve never seen that.” He held up the case up for inspection; House shuddered at the sight of Ben Affleck’s smug, oily mug.

Wilson continued, in what was clearly meant to be an enticing manner, “And it’s got a lesbian in it…”

House threw the _Roberta_ DVD on the coffee table and scoffed, “There’s a reason you never saw that movie. It’s been universally panned, like an _Ishtar_ for the twenty-first century.”

“ _Ishtar_ ’s with Hoffman and Beatty, right?” He pulled the last movie out. “I got that, too.”

House groaned. “Give me a twenty, and I’ll go to Blockbuster.”

“Nope, that’s OK. These are fine, and they were free!” Wilson neatly stacked the four DVDs on the coffee table, taking extra care to ensure they were lined up precisely.

House held in a second groan. He really should insist that they go get better movies, but his leg was bothering him a bit more than usual, and the couch was feeling quite comfortable. Besides, Warren Beatty was easy on the eyes, and when the plot threatened to drive him insane, he could turn his attention elsewhere.

He contemplated the expanse of Wilson’s neck. Last weekend he’d broken his personal record for most hickeys administered; tonight he could go for biggest hickey.

* * *

The kitchen looked like a farmers’ market had exploded in it. Fruit everywhere. Apples – red, yellow, and green – and bananas covered the left counter. Grapes – green, red, and purple – and oranges covered the right. The kitchen island was covered with berries – black, blue, rasp, and straw – and two massive whole pineapples.

The only counter space not occupied with fruit was a rectangle about three square feet in size directly in front of Wilson. That held a chopping board and a massive ceramic bowl.

“Wilson!” House bellowed in exasperation. “What are you doing?”

Wilson didn’t even look up from his work. “Making fruit salad.”

Shaking his head, House opened the refrigerator, half-expecting more fruit. He breathed a sigh of relief that there was no more to be found, and grabbed a water.

As if sensing the question swirling around the kitchen, Wilson continued, “I’m making some extra for later in the week. It’s good to be prepared.”

“Some extra.” House swigged the water and shook his head again. “And you want to be prepared. For what? Armageddon? The only way you can save the world is to feed every single person on it fruit salad?”

Wilson just kept chopping.

* * *

 _How the hell did I end up here?_ thought House. A perfectly good Sunday evening, and he was at Borders, standing in front of the “periodicals” rack and flipping idly through a Maxim while waiting for Wilson. The man was god knows where in this huge stupid store looking for god knows what, and House was starting to get irritated. Even the “Doin’ It on My Boss’s Desk” feature couldn’t amuse him – and mentally plastering each of his fellows’ faces on the woman of the month was usually his favorite part.

“She’s got the blood pressure cuff in the wrong place.”

House whipped around and almost sighed. “Wilson, you’re back. Finally. Let’s go.” He stuffed the magazine into the rack, but immediately found his hands full again with Wilson’s finds.

“Hold these for me,” Wilson said, as he walked away.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to use the restroom, and you can’t take merchandise in.” Wilson waved once over his shoulder and was gone.

House closed his eyes briefly, juggled the book and CD so he could carry them comfortably, and walked over to the coffee bar.

Halfway through his iced coffee, House realized that Wilson had been gone an abnormally long time. This was getting ridiculous. He called Wilson and was relieved when he answered on the first ring.

“Did you fall in?”

“Oh, House, sorry. I remembered there was something I wanted to check out at Best Buy so I came over here. Why don’t you just buy the stuff and come over? They’ve got some new video games that you might be interested in.”

House snapped the cell shut and made his way to the front of the store. He contemplated dumping Wilson’s merchandise – and fleetingly contemplated dumping Wilson – but went ahead and handed his credit card to the cashier.

It took him a few minutes to find Wilson in the Best Buy; he was in the small appliances section, of all places. “You owe me $41,” House grumbled, thrusting the bag at Wilson and ignoring the blue-shirted employee who had been talking.

“House, you’re interrupting.”

Peering at the employee’s nametag, House replied, “Well, Glen here is paid to wait on customers. Right, Glen?” He ignored the nod and continued, “So he can wait on us for a minute while you pay me back.”

Wilson had his arms folded and an expression that seemed disproportionately stern for the situation. “I only have about three dollars with me. If you leave it in the bank, you’re not tempted to spend it, right? Why don’t you go test out some videogames and let me finish my conversation.”

He turned back to Glen and immediately started yammering about HEPA and pollutants and pile length and suction. House would’ve made a lewd comment, but he was still in shock over what had just happened. Wilson had tricked House into buying something for him, and if his manner was to be believed, he wasn’t going to be paying House back. It wasn’t even stuff House liked – a biography of George Bernard Shaw and an audio CD of _King Lear_ , for Pete’s sake.

A realization broke through his shock.

“Wilson, what is this conversation about?”

“The one I’m having with Glen that you’re interrupting again? Vacuum cleaners. Especially with your seasonal allergies, we have to be careful about particulates and –”

“Why are you shopping for a vacuum cleaner when we don’t have carpeting?”

If Glen realized he was about to lose a sale, he wasn’t letting it show. He just looked back and forth between House and Wilson like a spectator at a ping-pong game.

“I was thinking we should get carpeting, at least in the bedroom. Easier on the feet and everything.” Wilson had his hands on his hips, and it was driving House batty.

“Uh huh, Suzy Homemaker. So you want to buy the vacuum cleaner first, and then the carpeting?”

“Well, House –” Wilson glanced down at his watch and changed topics abruptly. “Oh. It’s almost eight. I’ve got to go; my show’s on NPR.”

“What?” Flabbergasted might not be too strong a word to describe House at that moment. Glen was still pivoting his head back and forth.

“I’ll listen to it in the car. Come on when you’re ready,” Wilson called over his shoulder as he hurried away.

House dug the heel of his hand into his forehead to attempt to block some of the pain. “NPR and vacuum cleaners. He’s gone so gay,” he murmured.

Glen leaned in confidentially. “Honey, you can’t blame that on our culture. Babs, Judy Garland, rainbows, and musical theater are ours.” Glen, who had seemed to be a rather nondescript big-box-store employee, was starting to flame. The transformation was awe-inspiring in its fluidity and speed.

“Hell,” Glen continued in his new-found voice, “we’ll even take some of the blame for Madonna, Cher, and leather chaps – they’re all butt-less, don’t you know? But carpet cleaning and NPR? That’s your boy’s unique penchant. Love him as is, or throw him back out on the market.” Glen sent a smirking leer toward the front of the store that raised House’s hackles. “I’d hit that.”

He tried hard not to growl. “Back off. I have a stick and I know how to use it.”

“Oh, sweetie,” – Glen swatted him on the arm – “yours is longer, but mine is thicker. Comparative skill with using it still TBD.”

House pondered for a long beat, and then relaxed. “Does that act really get you more sales?”

Glen considered House, shrugged, and morphed yet again. “Eh, it's a college town; you might be surprised.” He smiled genuinely, and House allowed his own lips to quirk up in response.

“Seriously,” Glen continued, “the vacuum cleaner obsession is weird. Please, please don’t blame that on being gay. We have enough problems as it is.”

House gestured toward the front of the store with his chin. “He and I aren’t really gay.”

Rolling his eyes, Glen replied, “Yeah, and RSL’s not either.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just the carpet-cleaning craziness made me think of the only other person I’ve heard of being similarly inclined: RSL. You know, Robert Sean Leonard, the actor from _Dead Poets’ Society_? And if he’s not in the closet, he’s one of the gayest straight men I’ve ever heard of.” Glen paused, thinking. “Oh, dear lord, your boy looks just like him!”

House nodded. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“It’s remarkable. So, since you’re not here for a vacuum, anything else in the store I can show you?” Glen raised his eyebrows hopefully.

The NPR program, which Wilson had listened to the previous evening as well, would last until nine, so House had some time. “I’m thinking about upgrading my gaming system. Not enough detail on the gore when I’m slaughtering zombies.”

Glen smiled again and gestured down a nearby aisle. “We’ve got just the thing for you.”

* * *

By mid-day Monday, House had had enough. He’d been forced to listen to the end of that stupid NPR program and then to Wilson prattling on about it for another hour. He’d been served so much fruit salad it was coming out of his ears. He’d caught Wilson writing poetry when he was supposed to be downloading kinky porn.

Wilson spacing out during another differential and then wandering away, still musing on Gonorrhea or whatever her name was from _King Lear_ , was completely the last straw. House picked three random tests from the air, just to get his team out of the room so he could think.

This situation sucked. And last night, in a move beyond anything House had come to expect, Wilson didn’t. House was going to have to call for a psych consult. He was analyzing whether the consult should be for Wilson or for himself when his office door opened, and the man occupying his thoughts walked back in.

Wilson’s tan suit was even less attractive than it had been earlier, his shirt seemed to have gotten substantially crinklier, and the knot of his tie was knocked askew. There were some small untidy flips in his hair too, as if he hadn’t paid enough attention while blow-drying this morning.

House closed his eyes briefly against this assault on his vision. “Did you bring me lunch?” he asked.

A simple enough query, fairly high up there on the list of “Most Frequent Questions from House to Wilson,” along with “What are you making me for dinner?” and “Did you buy lube?” but it seemed to throw Wilson.

“Oh.” He looked around confusedly and patted his pockets, as if searching for the answer, or for House’s lunch. “Did you ask me to?”

“No,” House replied sulkily. He never had to ask – Wilson just supplied.

“I guess I could go.” Wilson stretched out his hand, and House eyed it warily. “Just give me a twenty, and I’ll go get you a sandwich.”

“Sandwiches don’t cost twenty bucks.”

Wilson shrugged. “You can have the change back if you really want it.”

House stared. He was waiting for Wilson to break into a laugh and admit he was joking. But the hand stayed out, and the accompanying face remained impassive.

“Never mind,” House finally said. “I know you’re busy. I’ll make Cameron go get me something.”

“Suit yourself. Now, wait a minute, I came in here for some other reason. What was it? Gah, if this day gets any more stressful, I think I’m going to shoot myself in the head.”

“You want to confess suicidal thoughts?” It didn’t seem likely, but then Wilson asking House for money and expecting to keep the change hadn’t seemed likely up until the point when he actually did it.

“What? No! I wanted to tell you about this new play called _Voyage_ that we should go see. It’s part of a trilogy, _Coast of Utopia_ , by Tom Stoppard, who is such a genius. An incredible production – forty-one actors total over the whole trilogy, and most people play multiple parts.”

“Oh, thrilling.” House was completely lacking in enthusiasm, but Wilson didn’t seem to notice. His face held the kind of excitement previously reserved for long-standing patients’ remissions, new slow-cooker recipes, and the rare moments when House took it upon himself to clean the bathroom. House sighed and gave in. “What’s it about?”

“Nineteenth century Russian intellectualism. It follows five of the forefathers of the Russian Revolution through thirty-five years of their lives. Well, that’s the whole trilogy. _Voyage_ focuses on –”

Ugh. “Well, maybe we should wait until all three are out on DVD, and then we can watch the whole thing together.”

Exasperated, Wilson put his hands on his hips. At least that move was familiar. “It’s a play, not a film. And you’ve actually met one of the actors in it.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“Robert Sean Leonard – remember you met him in the Clinic Friday? The guy with heartburn you pulled me in to consult on.”

“The one who looks like you?” House sat up straighter; that guy was coming up a lot lately. Something to think about… “So you’re saying you want to go see yourself on stage.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “House, come on, this is going to be amazing – just such inventive theater. And it’s Tom Stoppard; the man’s a genius. His plays are a real light against the darkness. _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, The Real Thing, The Invention of Love._ Aren’t those ringing a bell for you?”

“No, and I don’t know why they’re ringing bells for you.”

Wilson shook off that notion and pressed on. “Stoppard’s also written movies. _Empire of the Sun_. _Brazil_. _Shakespeare in Love_.”

“Gwyneth Paltrow as a dude.” House perked up a little. “That one I remember.”

“It wasn’t Gwynnie’s best work. And she wasn’t very attractive as a man.”

“Gwynnie?”

With a puzzled look, Wilson stopped. “Dunno,” he finally said, “it just seems like that’s what I should call her.” His face cleared. “Back to the play. It’s at the Lincoln Center Theater in Manhattan. Can you get us tickets?”

“Think this Leonard guy would comp up some tickets?”

“Free tickets?” Wilson’s eyes lit up disturbingly. “Wouldn’t hurt to ask. We’d have his phone number in his patient file.”

Just then, House was paged to his patient’s room. One tearful confession, an adjusted diagnosis, new treatment orders, and a bag lunch stolen from Chase’s locker later, House was back at his desk. The patient file for Leonard, Robert Sean, was prominently displayed with a sticky note covered with Wilson’s scrawl. “Meetings all day. You call. Opening night?”

OK, Wilson had a generally positive view of the universe, but he normally wasn’t the kind of blind optimist as to expect two extraordinarily unlikely things (free tickets for an opening night and House to do a chore for the two of them) at the same time. House needed to figure this out and get it resolved.

Somehow, crazily, it seemed to involve this theater guy. House was a man of science who above all sought rational explanations. On the other hand, he had, like Alice’s Queen, sometimes believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast, and it was on that note that he picked up the phone.

A sweet female voice, who turned out to be the fiancée, Gaby, answered on the second ring. Choking slightly on the thought this might get back to Cuddy, House explained that he was following up on Bob’s Clinic visit on Friday.

“I’m so glad you called,” the woman said with obvious relief. “The heartburn is much better, but he’s been, well, a little off all weekend. Could the drug you gave him be causing side effects?’

Over-the-counter antacid was extremely unlikely to cause significant side effects, but a theory was starting to form in House’s mind, and he needed more information. “What sort of symptoms have you noticed?”

“Well, not symptoms exactly. Not physical ones, I mean. He’s just – well, his personality’s the littlest bit different, just enough to be noticeable. To me.”

House held back a scoff. This woman seemed to have almost as much trouble as her fiancé in getting to the point. “Tell me what you’ve observed; it’s important.”

Her next words came out in a rush, as if she’d been storing them up. “He talks to me differently. Some times it’s like he’s over-solicitous, over-caring, and sometimes he gets pretty sharp. He’s not as interested in his regular hobbies; he didn’t read at all this weekend, and that’s unusual. He put a tie on this morning before he went out. And, well, I think I caught him checking out other women this weekend.”

She paused and laughed. “You know, that last one is probably just me overreacting and being silly. I mean, Sunday there wasn’t a word about other women; in fact, he spent most of the day on the phone with his friend Ethan. Ethan’s still feeling some repercussions from his divorce; I’m so happy Bob can be there for him.”

The diagnosis struck like a bolt from the blue, as diagnoses were wont to do. There’d been a switch of some kind – somehow this other guy and Wilson had swapped personalities. The guy had taken on Wilson’s unique and rather wolf-ish tendencies, and Wilson – well, Wilson had turned into a dong. House felt a little sorry for the fiancée, but presumably she’d known that before she took his ring.

During House’s pause, the woman laughed again, self-consciously. “Maybe we should just forget it. It’s probably nothing. Bob certainly doesn’t think there’s anything wrong.”

“There is something wrong, but I’m sure we can help him.”

“That would be great. The play opens this weekend, and he’s really starting to – oh, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this!”

“I’m a good listener,” said House, his fingers very firmly crossed. He was tired of the dong he currently had living with him; he wanted his Wilson back.

“You are,” the fiancée replied. House pressed his crossed fingers even closer together.

She continued, “I’m a little nervous about Bob making it to opening night. Yesterday Jack, the director, was very critical of his performance. I don’t know. Bob is truly gifted, but just now his acting seems so forced. It’s like he’s lost touch with his emotional core.”

House felt a sudden pang. He really missed his Wilson, every messed-up facet of him. The sooner this switch back happened, the better.

“We definitely shouldn’t wait, then. When can you get him back to the Clinic here?”

“Not any time before opening night. It was a minor miracle to get him away to come to Princeton Friday and Saturday. Between now and opening, he has too many rehearsals. Not to mention the one-on-one line readings with his co-star Jennifer.”

One-on-one? House groaned inwardly. _Sorry, Dong and Dong’s fiancée._ “I guess we’ll come to him then. What about tonight?”

“There’s a full run-through at the theater, seven pm to ten. I don’t want to mention this to him; he’ll think I’m being silly. So, why don’t I meet you there at seven-thirty and get you in?”

“Sounds fine.” House scribbled down the address and directions The Bride of Dong gave him. Truthfully, he didn’t know how he would trigger the switch. He decided he’d just treat this like any case – diagnose as far as possible, then throw everything and the kitchen sink at the patient to see what worked.

* * *

Wilson had been reluctant to come with House to the theater, citing a Board meeting or some trifling thing like that, so House proved his “Everybody lies” theorem again by promising that Tom Stoppard would be there. There could be some possibility, he supposed, so perhaps that wasn’t a lie so much as willful ignorance. In any case, it got Wilson’s butt in the car.

They hit traffic, then more traffic, then got off course from the directions (Wilson’s mind wandering again), then had to park ridiculously far away, so House was not in the best of moods as they approached the theater. A pretty, thin, almost baby-faced blonde woman was waiting for them out front.

Opening pleasantries done – and House was not going to react to the lingering look Wilson and Bride of Dong shared – they went inside and made their way to the back of the theater itself. As they watched, Wilson’s doppelganger blew the same cue three times in a row. House couldn’t be perfectly sure from where they were, but it seemed like he had been checking out an extra instead of listening.

The director called for a break, and the pretty gal went off to collect her fiancé. Wilson was scoping out the entire theater, his eyes widened with a bit of awe. House was forcibly stopping his own eyes from rolling.

“Bob, here they are. Remember the doctors you met in Princeton? They were just dying to come and see you, because they’re such fans!”

House scowled at this unjustified gushiness, but Wilson looked about ready to squeal. “Tom Stoppard is such a genius!” he blurted.

“Um, I suppose,” his counterpart replied, and the fiancée shot House a look of pleading.

Right-o, switcheroo. How would this work? Obviously, they hadn’t swapped back yet, so it wasn’t just seeing each other. Then it hit him – in the Clinic, Wilson had touched the guy as part of the exam. Maybe touch would get everything back in its rightful place.

While Wilson was still yammering about Stoppard, House pulled aside the fiancée. “Based on what I’ve observed, I definitely can help your guy. I could go into a long technical” – and entirely false – “explanation, but everything can be helped by flash photography.”

“What?” She looked perplexed, understandably.

“It’s an eye-brain thing, and a sudden flash, like from a camera, should reverse the condition.” _Please don’t be an ophthalmologist in your spare time_ , he silently begged. “So let’s take a picture.”

“OK,” she replied, and House’s relief was immense.

They secured a camera and got the two men to pose together. At first, Wilson seemed reluctant to put his arm around Dong, but when House whispered, “For the scrapbook,” Wilson readily complied.

In the aftermath of the flash, everyone stared at each other for a second. House realized he was holding his breath, and let it out quietly, disgusted with himself. Now he needed to test the results of this experimental cure.

“Wilson, give me your credit card.”

Wilson reached for his wallet but then stopped. “What for?”

“Tickets for the play. You wanted to go to opening night, right? Um –” House gestured at Bride of Dong.

“Gaby,” Wilson and Dong supplied at the same time.

“Yes, Gaby here already gave out their comp tickets for opening night, so if we want to come, I’ve got to go buy the tickets at the box office.”

Wilson handed over the credit card immediately.

“And give me a twenty for popcorn.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, but looked in his wallet anyway. “Oh, I don’t seem to have any cash. That’s strange. Here’s my ATM card.”

Dong –yeah, all right – Bob looked at Wilson as if Wilson had completely lost his mind. When Wilson looked back skeptically, House gave Gaby a surreptitious thumbs-up. The mission seemed definitely to be accomplished.

“You know what?” House interjected, before the staring could get too awkward. “Wilson, we’ve taken enough of their time – why don’t you come with me to get the tickets and then we’ll go home?”

Handshakes and closing pleasantries behind them, House stepped into the theater’s lobby with a smile on his face. He had Wilson’s credit card, his ATM card, and best of all, the man himself back.

“You still want to see this play?” He cocked his head expectantly.

“Well, maybe not opening night, because that’s a Friday.” Wilson thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked once lightly on the balls of his feet. “Traffic’s always a bear, and anyway, I was thinking maybe an Angelina Jolie-Brad Pitt theme for Movie Night.”

“ _Tomb Raider_?”

“Or the sequel. And _Fight Club_ and _Mr. & Mrs. Smith_.”

“That last one’s not that Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward movie, is it?”

“No, that’s _Mr. & Mrs. Bridge_, and I don’t know how I know that because I’ve never seen that film.” Wilson shook his head. “ _Mr. & Mrs. Smith_ is Brad and Angelina as married spies.”

“And they do it in the middle of a shoot-out. Yeah, that’s a good one.” He gave Wilson, his Wilson, a long look and was hard-pressed to keep all the fondness he felt out of it. “Are you ready to go home?”

Wilson’s smile held some fondness, too, and more than a little mischief. “Yes, I am.”

* * *

Bob was tired as he let himself into the apartment. After those strange doctors had left, the rehearsal had improved dramatically. Things were back on track, and he was exceedingly glad for it.

Gaby smiled up at him from the couch. “You looked wonderful tonight. How did things go after I left?”

He smiled back and took a seat right next to her. “Those visitors to the rehearsal broke my concentration a little, but overall, it was a good night. Jack was pleased; everybody was pleased. I cancelled the one-on-one I had set up with Jennifer because I don’t think we need it any more.”

“Good.” Gaby curled up into him, and he felt content. There was only one thing still lingering on his mind.

“Remember the guy with the cane you met tonight at the theater, Dr. House? And the shorter guy, Dr. Wilson?”

Gaby laughed. “You mean the one who looks like you?”

“He doesn’t look that much like me. Maybe if I gained twenty pounds…”

He yelped as Gaby poked him in the side. “It’s not nice to tease about weight,” she chastised.

“OK, OK.” Pulling her tighter, he chuckled. “All I meant to say is that guy, Dr. House, is such an ass. I have no idea why Dr. Wilson puts up with him.”

“Bob, you barely know Dr. House. Are you sure you can judge?”

He snorted. “I know more than I want to. I just have no idea what Dr. Wilson’s motivation could be, how he could put up with so much and stand getting so little in return.”

Gaby smiled at him and tugged him off the couch with her. As they walked to their bedroom, she said, “Well, it’s unlikely we’ll see them again, so fortunately, you don’t need to worry about Dr. Wilson’s motivations.”

Bob chuckled again. “I guess not. It’s not like he’s a character I’m playing or anything.”


End file.
